Shadowland
by Robin Mask
Summary: Submission. Nothing could be simpler. Submit and be rewarded, that was what he wanted, but who would willingly submit? She had her pride. She would never submit . . . never. One-shot.


**A/N: **The characters in this story have been anthropomorphised.

This is dedicated to 'Vicky Voltaire'. Vicky Voltaire writes some amazing and unique stories for Scar, so I really recommend reading her works; it's definitely worth your time! This is a sort of spiritual sequel to 'Injustice Deliciously Squared', but it can be read as a stand-alone story.

**Shadowland**

It was never enough for those vultures . . .

No one seemed to understand the pressures of managing a company. No one seemed to _want _to understand. It hadn't gone beyond his notice that those who worked for him were _more _than ready to lay claim to the credit when things went well, but when things failed . . . when they faltered for a moment . . . then suddenly their pride in the company was lost, their idea of teamwork was gone, and who wanted to take a share of the blame then? No one. It was _Scar's _fault.

Who could comprehend the pressures of running a company? It was something incomprehensible to the weakling masses, like a goldfish in a bowl trying to visualise the world at large, because those trapped by their meagre social positions would never understand what it was like to stand atop the corporate ladder. The daily meetings were more like army drills, each meeting only emphasising the failings that had occurred since the last, and the boardrooms seemed to collapse upon him and gave him the worst claustrophobia he could ever recollect having. It didn't matter what guidelines were given, what employees were hired or fired, how the finances were handled, because – eventually – it would all turn in on itself. It would fail and he would be blamed . . . and when the press caught wind of it . . .

Mufasa had made it look so easy, but he had been so inefficient! The two men had such extreme and opposed managerial styles, but if Mufasa had not been willing to compromise then why should Scar? He would _make _this company work! He would increase profits and productivity, he would improve employee satisfaction, and he would raise the company to _global _status in a way Mufasa had never done! He would be the new 'king'! The useless herds would no longer follow the deceased ex-president of the company . . . there would be no need . . . _Scar _would rule!

Scar paced his office in a fierce temper.

It was infuriating and intoxicating all at once. The feel of the power coursing through his vein, a power he was _born _for, and the chance to finally use his intellect against competitors and business rivals -! He was among the elite. He was the alpha dog, the top cat, and he revelled in his ability to effectively control the lives of those beneath him, to sculpt and create a perfect world, an ideal company! If only the company wasn't starting to _fail ._ . . his control slipping . . .

They couldn't leave him alone! He had given so much to them, he was paying their wages and _he _was the one with the power -! He didn't even get so much as a lick of appreciation, and it was so irksome, so tiresome, so – so . . . he needed to reassert his power and soon. If he could simply _change _his image in some way!

Scar slapped his hand upon the intercom and sent out a command:

"Zazu! Send in Nala!"

If no one would respect him then he would _make _them respect him. He was a wonder to the business world, a great man that no other could compete with, and his sheer will of force and great intelligence would prove him to be _infinitely _more competent than his infuriating brute of a brother! Even _now _they compared him to that inferior being! Would he ever be out of that man's shadow? Would he ever be seen as a great leader in his own right? A change of image . . . that was all that was needed . . .

He looked through the window of his office to Zazu. It seemed that he was working at his desk as per usual, locked away were he couldn't cause any trouble or instigate any strikes, but there was just something about him that Scar despised . . . he had been the man who had once whispered in Mufasa's ear, and now he was seemingly contented to sit behind a desk. It was the only place for him. If Scar got rid of him now it would only further darken the image of him as a failing company director with a heart of stone, the morale of his people would weaken, and his efforts would have all been for nought. He wasn't going to let Mufasa bind him from beyond the grave, he would break free of these chains and use his men as he saw fit, he would bring this company back to life and even those like Zazu would worship him at last.

He snarled and pulled the blinds down closed. No one would see inside his office, not today, because this would be a private discussion . . . he would attempt a vital merger, one that could not – _would not _– fail. He stalked across to his desk and stood in front of it in order to seem large and intimidating, his black mane of hair cascading over his shoulders as he kept his green eyes trained upon the door.

The door opened and revealed Nala.

"Welcome," Scar said as welcomingly as he could. "You are aware of why you are here, aren't you? You _are _one of my best employees, such a bright and glittering future ahead of you. You should be honoured."

"Honoured?"

"Precisely."

Scar signalled for her to take a seat in one of the chairs opposite him, she walked calmly across the room and slid into the chair without expressing an iota of emotion. The only emotion she allowed was a slither of suspicion. It was always amusing to see the slight slither of anger in those green-blue eyes, something seeping through against her will, and something she likely did not understand . . .

She was so young, so _naïve_. She was smart enough to rest on her instincts, to know that something was wrong with the dark-skinned man with scarred face, almost like a child could tell from an old Western what gun-slingers were good and which were bad, but so far she had no real understanding of _why _she felt such an innate distrust. It was just something she _felt _but didn't _know_. Instincts like that were not something one could nurture or instil, they were something one were born with, and Scar cherished such an in built talent. He could _use _that talent. If only she knew how right she was, if only she didn't second-guess herself, but that was the nature of reason . . . until she had proof that Scar was a 'bad' man, she would continue to be loyal, because Scar was the head of the company and the company was her life.

"Our company is on the verge of a shining new era," Scar said proudly, his eyes fixed upon her. "I believe you know the speech, do you not? I promised you all a future littered with prizes, a future in which you'll never go hungry, and a future in which we are all connected. I see you as a part of this future. You, Nala, are essential. I see you so full of potential, and I see you allied to my vision . . ."

The young woman merely raised a dark eyebrow and regarded him darkly, perhaps questioning his rhetoric or why he needed her so desperately, especially with the company all but collapsing around his heels. The business was failing. It was but a skeleton of what it once was, picked to the bones by larger competitors, and the 'minions' at the bottom of the food-chain seemed to be promised so many benefits without any being delivered . . . it was Nala and her colleagues who were being blamed from below for failing and pressured from above to hunt for more clients. She was sick of it, but aside from quitting there was nothing she could do.

"Do we share the same vision, Scar?" Nala asked, crossing her legs elegantly as she spoke. "I somehow fail to see this as the 'glittering future' that Mufasa once saw for his family business."

"Do not speak that name to me."

She refrained from commenting as she watched his reaction. He was losing his mind, slowly but surely . . . it took a certain type of man to deal with this pressure, and Scar wasn't one of them. His long fingers clenched the desk so tightly that she was sure that they would break under the pressure, and his scared eyelid flickered as he glared darkly at her, his lips pulling upwards to reveal sharp teeth . . .

It was well-known at her level that mentioning previous management was a bit of a no-no, but in her opinion any manager so prone to emotional outbursts wasn't fit to manage, and – as such – she would willingly poke and prod to get a response. She used to do it all the time with Simba growing up. The more they jibed one another, the more they play-fought . . . the more they could learn and grow and mature . . . she missed those days. She had no one to bounce off now. If she irked Scar too much he would lash out, her fellow peers thought she was being cruel rather than playful, and no one her junior could stand up to her.

"You seem down, my dear."

"The name Mufasa pains me too," she said with sorrow. "I lost Simba that day."

"It was a tragic accident, indeed."

If it was that tragic then why didn't he sound more hurt? The way he said it made it sound as if the whole thing was nothing more than a mild inconvenience, something no more tragic than his assistant losing his notes before a meeting. Mufasa had died that day. The details were still unclear, but it seemed as if he had ran in front of a speeding car to push Simba out of the way, but Simba was never found.

Where was Simba now? If he was still alive, then what had became of him . . . there had been no ransom that she had known of, but as a child she had been naïve enough to assume he might have been kidnapped in order for someone else to have a child, to be raised with love, as an adult she knew better. If he wasn't already dead then he might have been involved with human trafficking, extortion, blackmail, or any number of dark motives that involved making money or getting money from Scar, and if he wasn't under someone else's thumb, then what? It was possible he was struggling on the streets somewhere to make ends meet, nothing more than a runaway, but why would he turn to that? Where was he?

She ran a hand through her short, light brown hair. It was cropped short, but – with just a tad bit of wax – styled nicely so that it was slicked back and gave her a rather controlled and predatory look of a professional businesswoman. Her skin was creamy and tanned from her last holiday in the sunshine, and her bright eyes shone like polished diamonds in her face. She came from good blood, her parents always joking as she grew up that she'd be a perfect wife for an heir to a fortune, an heir like Simba, but that was a life not meant for her now.

"It comes to me that our company needs an image change," Scar said softly.

"Yes," Nala admitted, "in the current climate we are falling somewhat stagnant. I imagine not all of the blame can fall solely upon the company itself, after all the recession has hit even the toughest of our competitors hard, but unless we offer something new soon – or revamp our image – we'll only continue to decline in this current market."

"What would you suggest?"

"I would firstly suggest investing in a vigorous advertising campaign, to let out competitors know that we're not dead yet and to let more potential clients see that we're here and open for business. A change in image would also be a good idea, particularly if we return to the image of being a family business, push forward the idea of family values and concern for the masses and environment. There are some schemes we can invest in, charities we can donate to, events we can put on. I have a thorough list of ideas here for you."

Nala handed Scar the papers and folders on her lap. Her cream-coloured suit crinkled as she moved, her modest chest slightly exposed as she leaned forward and forgot that – in the heat-wave – she had undone a few top buttons. Scar's eyes were quick to notice. She felt a little dirty under that gaze, and – frankly – the man was so feminine sometimes she had always assumed he swung the other way, but even though he looked he _still _didn't seem to be interested. It was such a _clinical _look.

"Is something wrong?"

"What would you say is the _quickest_ way to return to the 'family' image?"

"Quickest? There are no quick fixes, Scar."

Scar frowned and threw the folders onto his desk. He didn't have the patience that Mufasa had, the desire to listen to others or take advance from those 'beneath' him, and – frankly – it took a special skill in order to get him to listen . . . the trick seemed to be getting him to believe the idea had been _his _idea all along. Nala hadn't the patience for that. True, the papers proved outright it was her plan, but if he wouldn't accept the idea merely because it was hers than that was his problem . . . just so long as she continued to get a pay-slip and benefits that was all that mattered. She cared for the company, but it was so different from what it once was . . .

She hadn't realised she had lowered her head in pain until Scar's hand came under her chin and lifted her face, his rough and calloused hands uncomfortable against her soft and perfect skin. It wasn't an appropriate touch, but it was a far cry from 'sexual harassment', so she allowed it for now . . . one day she would leave this company, but something told her she would always look back. It was in her blood. She couldn't leave forever, no matter how much better off she would be for it.

'Remember your pride'.

Her mother had told her that so many times in the past few months, explaining that it may be better in the long-run for her to leave the company and search for a new path, to begin a new journey, but she just couldn't bring herself to do it. This was her home. It had been her first job, she had even taken over the role her mother once fulfilled, and this was her only tie to Simba, her only connection to him . . . she could not forget her pride, but nor could she forget her family. This company _was _her family. If she stood by it long enough it may again regain its former glory, but to stand by it would be to endure its rundown and broken structure . . . a shadow of its former self.

"I think," Scar said gently, still holding her chin, "that a quick fix would be quite adequate and perhaps beneficial to the both of us. You've been looking for a promotion for a long time now, haven't you?"

"I would like to think my work has been recognised. I am certainly _deserving_ of a promotion, but it would depend what strings are attached . . ."

"I was thinking a _merger_ of two heads."

Nala snapped her head up to look at Scar in disgust. This man wasn't only two decades her senior, but he was also Simba's uncle . . . it would be betraying Simba's memory and their friendship in the most brutal way imaginable. It was also offensive that he thought she was for sale. Her talent, her strength, her professional nature . . . it should have been enough, should have spoke for itself, but apparently not.

He didn't even _look _interested either, as insulting as that was. The look he gave her was more assessing than craving, more objective than lustful, and so she felt as if she were being weighed and judged. It didn't make sense to her why he would be coming on so rather strong, why he would want her, especially when he could have his pick of any of the women within the company or – for that matter – without. He seemed as disinterested in the offer as she was. It made it seem as if this was merely a power play, an exercise in seeing how far his power extended and if he could truly obtain the unobtainable, but if it were more than that – if he truly thought Nala would give into him so easily – then his narcissism had truly reached terrifying levels.

"Excuse me?"

"You could be my queen," he said, stroking her cheek softly as he came to stand directly in front of her. "You marry me and I'll promote you to the heights of which you could never even dream of, your career would flourish under me. I believe a wife and an heir would solve my problem, don't you?"

"No! Even if anyone were to agree to that you would only be putting a band-aid over the wound . . . you need a more serious and stable plan, you need to treat the cause of this rather than –"

"Do you think me incompetent? This is beneficial to you. You should be grateful."

She curled her lip in disgust and stood abruptly. Her worth was not tied to her job or her career, it was something innate to her and independent of other's judgements, and as such she valued her body and potential enough to know that such an offer was a complete insult. If this were the only way to gain a promotion with Scar then fine, there were plenty of competitors who would be willing to hire her for twice her current wage, even for a lesser position. No job was worth this. He may have been 'king', but he was far from being her owner and possessor.

"You're insane."

Nala growled at him and turned quickly on her feet, her suede ankle-boots making a loud noise upon the floor as she moved with such speed, and as she moved to storm out of the office something caught her wrist. It was jarring and she was jerked back rather painfully. It was something she remembered to take a mental note of, because she would certainly report this behaviour the moment Scar let her go.

His grip was firm and hard upon her, almost cutting and painful, but as she made to pull away he pulled her back . . . bringing her against him. She panicked. The very idea of being pressed so firm against a man, especially one her senior both socially and biologically, made her afraid . . . Scar was physically weak, that was true, but he was a man and she was a woman. She had never learned to defend herself, and she was certain that – if he pushed things – he could easily have his way. Zazu would have left his desk by now and the blinds were down. She felt afraid.

"You'll never get another offer like this."

"Thank God."

She pushed hard against him, her heart thundering in her ears, but he growled and pulled back. She was trapped. His one hand was upon her wrist, the other upon her waist and trailing to the place where the small of her back met the upper reaches of her buttocks, and he seemed intent on exploring that area, even though she struggled in his grip, her fear increasing. It was horrible to be held by a man so repulsive, especially when so trapped . . . trapped . . .

"Let go of me!"

She struggled furiously against him. His grip was so strong that it was bruising her wrist, but no matter how she moved it was impossible to break free, and – as she cried out in fury – he growled loudly at her and threw her against the desk, a move so swift that it struck the bone of her back and hurt her greatly. She tried to get up but found a hard hand fast upon her, knocking her down, pinning her now against the desk by her shoulders. It was painful and humiliating.

This shouldn't be happening, she was above this! She had been born to a good family, she had attended an excellent university, she had rose to ranks that most people could never achieve . . . she loved her career and she loved her family . . . didn't these sorts of things happen to other people? She had helped in charities for women, and it always seemed to be teenage girls who couldn't fight back or young women with bad backgrounds, and for the adult women who were so low on the food chain that their bosses assumed they would get away with it . . . she had never pitied them, but she had felt their pain and helped them as she could, always believing it was simply 'their' pain, that she would never endure it. She would sympathise, never empathise.

Now it was her turn. It made her feel weak. She hadn't felt this helpless since Simba had died, since he was assumed dead at least, and now she was being held down as this man – this _brute _– tried to undo buttons on her blouse and touch upon her breast. She had always felt she was a role model for women, but here she was about to be used and she hated it . . . she hated it! She hated herself most of all, but she wouldn't let Scar win, she wouldn't let him make her feel this way . . .

"_Let go_!"

She threw out her hand and instinctively scratched at his face, digging her nails in as deep as they would go and marking him as harshly as possible. She wasn't one for long nails, but she was one for manicures, and with her nails sharpened into a point the damage was pretty intense. Four long red marks appeared on his face. He cried out in anger and she shoved him hard, throwing him off her as she ran for the door.

_Thank God_, he hadn't locked it! She quickly fiddled with the handle and opened it quickly, but she cast one last look to Scar before she left . . . if she hadn't just been assaulted then she would have felt sorry for him. He was clutching her face and looking at her with a mixture of horror and rage, as if he were somehow afraid of her, and the look in his eyes . . . _violated_, he looked genuinely violated. She had seen that look in the victims of assault, the eyes of women hurt to the very core of their soul, hurt to the point that 'terror' didn't cover it. What had _he _to be afraid of?

She snarled and threw out one last phrase to him:

"In case you haven't guessed: I quit."

The door slammed so quickly behind her that it jolted her from the adrenaline rush and the fear in her heart. It reminded her that there was nothing left for her here anymore, the place that was once her home was now nothing but a land cast in shadow . . . a dried up river, a broken earth, and there was nothing left . . . nothing worth staying for . . . she had to leave, whilst she still had her pride . . .

She would always have her pride.


End file.
